


Stephen Strange and the Whomping Willow

by Cumbermarvel (UglyJackal)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Harry Potter AU, M/M, for the Doctor Strange Discord
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-06-26 12:12:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15662997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UglyJackal/pseuds/Cumbermarvel
Summary: In Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, a boy named Stephen Strange is an exceptional wizard. At least, until he has an accident that cripples his hands.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title may change, idk

Most wizards, when they were young, were scruffy and playful. With big arms and even bigger egos, they would punch their way through education, not caring about the exams, only the magic. Only what they would be able to do with wands, who they would be able to hurt, and who they would be able to trick.

Of course, there were some that did not abide to this rule.

And one such wizard was a Ravenclaw boy in his seventh year named Stephen Vincent Strange.

Stephen was a tall, lanky boy with high cheekbones and hair as black as the night sky, and eyes the colour of galaxies - a mix of blue and green that looked like the beginning of the universe - and he had the slightest scratch of stubble on his jaw, enough to make him look older than he really was. He was an adept student, excelling in all of his subjects, with a photographic memory that made his studying easy, and a phoenix feather in his wand that was put to good use. He was a natural at magic, something that no one had expected him to be, as he was born to two muggles. There was no helping of magic in his blood that made him as good as he was at magic, and that angered some students. His teachers were delighted at his progress and he was destined for great things. Single-handedly, he could have received enough house points to win the house cup most years. In his fifth year, he got O’s in his O.W.L exams across all of his subjects. In his sixth year, he was awarded the position of Prefect. 

To almost everyone’s surprise, when Stephen wrote his name down for Care of Magical Creatures, it was both his favourite subject and the one that he excelled at the most. The creatures were drawn to him as though they were extensions of his very soul, and he was the one that Professors Rocket and Groot called on immediately if one of the creatures were sick or injured. Stephen’s dream was to work with magical creatures; his idol was Newt Scamander, and he wanted to be just like him when he left Hogwarts, but he was also very interested in becoming a magical creatures vet.

This did not, however, make him completely innocent. He had an ego that was larger than the castle itself. He knew he was good, and he made sure that everyone else did too. He would show off his magical abilities at every chance he got, especially if it was to do with magical creatures. A few times, he had gotten too over-confident when interacting with a Blast-Ended Skrewt and ended up in the hospital wing with burns on his legs.

Because of his attitude, it was very difficult for Stephen to make friends. Or even acquaintances. He usually drove people away as soon as he met them. But he didn’t mind; he was best when he was alone, he worked better and thought better when there were no other distractions. That didn’t mean that in the quiet moments, he didn’t wish for someone to hold his hand; when he was eating, for someone to make light conversation with.

But that was neither here nor there. He was in his final year with his exams to worry about, he had no time to be lonely.

‘Good morning, Professor Rogers,’ he said, as he sauntered down to the Quidditch grounds.

‘Good morning, Stephen,’ Steve Rogers said with a smile. He had one foot on a rattling box, which undoubtedly held the Bludgers, Quaffle and the Golden Snitch.

Stephen did not own his own broom, unlike so many of the other students, not having a great love for the sport, so he would usually pick one of the spares from the store cupboard, though he always picked the same one - a long black handle to accommodate for his height with light brown bristles. He stood next to Karl Mordo, a bitter Hufflepuff student who was not Stephen’s biggest fan. ‘Morning, Mordo,’ he said.

‘Strange,’ Mordo grunted in return.

Mordo was a pureblood, who, like many purebloods, thought that their family was superior because of their bloodline. He looked down on muggleborns like Stephen, and it was the greatest insult to him that Stephen was a better wizard than he was.

As the lesson got underway, everything was going perfectly. It was a friendly match between Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, and Stephen was playing a Chaser. He bolted around the pitch, pursuing the Quaffle like a lioness going after her prey. He was a talented player, often told that he was doing his house a misservice not being on the Quidditch team, but he had no desire to be hit in the head with a Bludger. It was as they were approaching the second half of the match that Stephen felt slightly bemused by the jerkiness of his broom.

Especially when it flew him out of the pitch and had no desire whatsoever to turn back. A storm was gathering in the clouds, readying itself to crash and collide over the castle grounds, it was no weather to be flying in.

And it was definitely no weather to be flying straight for the Whomping Willow.

Thunder crackled above as Stephen started to shout at his broom. ‘Turn around! Please!’ he yelled.

The greedy fingers of the Willow reached towards him, eager to hold him in its grasp.

As lightning flashed, lighting up the grounds, the Willow grabbed him. He threw out his hands to try and escape, and got a branch like a club slammed into them for his efforts. He screamed as his bones broke like jigsaw pieces, tearing and snapping, shredding and crushing.

He heard the distant screaming of his name as he lost consciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay!!!! Whump!!!!!

He awoke with a groan, his eyelids sticking together as though a God was holding them shut, wanting to spare him from the ugly sight that met him when he finally managed to open his eyes.

And oh Merlin, what a sight to wake up to.

He was in the hospital wing - though the pain that wracked his body would not have put him under the illusion that he was back in his warm dormitory. The clinical sting of the wing that attacked his nostrils was unpleasant, and not a smell that he was unfamiliar with. But what made his stomach drop was the sight of his hands wrapped in casts and elevated in mid-air. And they hurt. They hurt more than anything else. It was like fire had replaced his veins, as though his very blood had turned into bubbling, spitting acid. 

Opening his mouth was like torture in itself, his jaw creaking like a hinge that needed oiling. ‘What… did they do?’ he croaked, panic lining the edges of his voice like gold lining the edge of a suit. He looked to the side of the bed, amazed to find Christine there, the blue accents on her robes drawing the attention of his swollen eyes.

Christine had been a past girlfriend of his, and their relationship was on and off. They fell apart and fell back together, sometimes in the most pathetic ways imaginable. Right now, they were dating. Maybe? Stephen didn’t have the faintest idea half of the time.

‘Hey, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,’ she said.

That wasn’t the answer that Stephen wanted. ‘ _ What _ did they  _ do _ ?’ he said, voice stronger this time.

‘Your bones were broken… badly. Multiple torn ligaments, severe nerve damage,’ she explained, ‘Madam Mantis was able to fix your bones with skele-grow… but, it can only fix bones. Your nerves are still mending themselves.’

Stephen’s bottom lip wobbled as he took it in. He dragged his aching eyes back to his hands, tears blurring his vision.

* * *

Stephen stared straight in front of him as the crisp sound of scissors cutting hair filled the room. Christine was cutting the longer strands of his hair, keeping it as short as she could, but letting the locks on his forehead grow out, just as Stephen liked it.

On the table in front of him, there was a plate of the finest food that Hogwarts had to offer, taken from breakfast that morning. The idea of all of those students laughing and talking made his stomach churn. They would all stare at him, look at his damaged hands, whisper about how the “great Stephen Strange” had finally been knocked off of his pedestal. His ego had finally been beheaded. Everyone had wanted to see him brought down a peg or two, and who could blame them? He was an arrogant bastard, had rubbed his prowess into the faces of anyone who would listen, had done it even if they hadn’t listened.

And now he was paying the price.

He only looked up and returned to himself when the sound of the scissors stopped, when they were placed down on the table with a dull clink.

Christine took hold of the knife and fork and started to cut up the food on the plate. Stephen’s eyes watched her without really seeing what was going on.

‘I know this might feel… embarrassing, Stephen,’ she said, as she gathered some sausage onto the prongs of the fork, ‘but it’s just me, and you know that I would never laugh at you.’

The boy just stared, pushing back the itchy feeling behind his eyes with a pinched brow. He turned his head away. ‘No,’ he mumbled.

He refused to stoop that low. He refused to be treated like a toddler.

‘Stephen, you have to eat.’

He shook his head.

‘If you eat, it’ll help your body to recover quicker,’ she said, ‘then you can be back doing the amazing magic that you can do.’

He sighed. Then after a moment, he turned his head back to the fork and opened his mouth, allowing Christine to put the food on his tongue. His very body burned with the shame of it, but he needed to recover. He needed his hands back.

* * *

A few weeks later, Madam Mantis approached Stephen, telling him that his bandages were ready to come off. Eyes pulled from the very ocean with seaweed clinging to the rock dragged up to look at the nurse, expression as empty as a drunkard’s bottle. He nodded mutely, and Mantis took hold of his left hand so gently it was like she wasn’t touching him at all.

As the bandages were unwrapped, Stephen could feel his hopes unravel along with the fabric. Once his fingers were released from their cages, they started to tremble. Not from the cold. Not from the fear. But from the shredded tissue under his skin and muscle. From the damage. From the Whomping Willow.

Christine was with him, and he heart sank as she saw the trembles. Stephen wouldn’t take this well, she knew that. But no one was ready for the avalanche that would break forth in the very near future.

Stephen continued to stare at his hands, not quite believing that they belonged to him. In denial that someone hadn’t simply swapped his hands for another. How could these be his hands? How could these shaking useless things belong to him, the best student in Hogwarts with a reputation for having the steadiest hands in the wizarding world? They couldn’t be his. He didn’t have raised, ugly, silver scars tracing the lines of his bones. Like roots spreading away from a sickly tree. Not his. No. Impossible.

But there was no denying that these hands had wrists. Wrists that joined to  _ his  _ arms. Arms that joined to  _ his _ shoulders. 

There was no denying that these hands were his. No matter how hard he tried.

He reached for his wand, fingers scrabbling for a grip on the handle. Tears glimmered in his eyes as he nearly knocked the wand onto the floor. Useless. Useless. Useless.

Then he got a grip. He held the wand loosely in his hand. And, oh Merlin, he hadn’t expected the pain. The pain that felt like a thousand needles piercing his tendons and muscles all at once. Pain that felt like bleach biting into his bones. Pain that made his eyes burn and itch.

With a muffled cry, he dropped his wand on the bed. He drew his hands to his chest, cradling them like a newborn child. He felt like he was going to burst into a million shards of glass, all of which would stab into whatever was around him, drawing blood and causing itches and irritation. He was going to break into a million pieces and then a million more.

‘Stephen, maybe you should wait for a while before trying to use your hands,’ Christine said, ‘I’m sure that Madam Mantis will be able to help you get used to stretching your muscles again.’

‘Shut up!’ the Ravenclaw snapped.

‘Stephen,’ she admonished.

‘No! You don’t get to tell me what to do,’ he said, his voice raising in volume, ‘it’s  _ my _ hands that are ruined, not yours!’

His friend turned away, hurt and frustrated with the boy. Mantis chewed on her lip, feeling awkward. While Stephen just raised his hands in front of him and stared, trying to take in what was now his.

* * *

He had dreaded being discharged from the hospital wing. It meant he had to face life on his own. That he had to learn to deal with the pain on his own. Continue to live even though his life had been snapped in two.

He had been ignoring the letters from his parents. He didn’t want their pity. He didn’t want to see their saddened faces or hear their worried voices. He just wanted to be left alone. For once in his life, he didn’t want anyone to hold his hand - especially when any contact with the scarred skin, however light, made the gnarled silver dragon nesting in the inside of his palm breathe acidic fire down the channels of his nerves. 

He didn’t exit the safety of his dorm for a month. His dorm had become his sanctuary, and his bed a safe space, where he could hide from the mocking stares and the barbed remarks. 

But Christine just couldn’t let him have his isolation. It was like she was hard-wired just to help him. A pitiful existence; living to serve others. Some would call it noble, but Stephen was not one of them; if you could not have your freedom to do as you pleased then what did you have at all?

_ Poor Stephen Strange - charity case - he finally needs me, another dreg of humanity for you to work on _ , Stephen had snapped at her once. He hated himself for thinking the words at all, let alone saying them; for throwing them out into the harsh atmosphere like a fisherman throws a bait into the ocean, where meteors crashed and stars exploded, where fires burned and water drowned, where words were said and could not be taken back, where they stayed, written in the dust, for all eternity.

And yet, she had still not driven him away, not left him stranded at the side of the road. Like a persistent cat who had been lured in with the promise of food, she kept coming back to him, looking for the kindness she had once thought she had seen. That was not to say, however, that her patience was endless; she was rapidly losing faith in Stephen’s heart, and was reaching the end of her tether.

She finally found it when she had walked in on Stephen using magic to try and stop the shaking of his hands.

‘Stephen!’ Christine screamed.

The boy dropped his wand, startled, cutting off the stream of sickly green magic connecting the tip of his wand to each point of his fingertips. One look at the shaking hands made Christine curse; it was clearly forbidden - not to mention, dangerous - magic that Stephen was using. The skin had split and cracked as though an earthquake had broken out across the savannah of his knuckles; there were rivers of broken open silvery scars running along the roads of bone that lay underneath the skin; the hands themselves shook even worse than before and were red and swollen. He was ruining himself.

She set down the tray of food that she would bring regularly to him and crossed her arms. ‘What the hell was that?’ she asked.

Stephen picked at his clothes - casual shirt and jeans with a soft threadbare cardigan thrown over his shoulders; so he wasn’t planning on going back to classes anytime soon, Christine noted. ‘I was trying to fix my hands,’ he said.

‘Stephen, Madam Mantis is the best matron in the country,’ she said, ‘if she couldn’t fix your hands, then what hope do you have? Stop this, please… before you hurt yourself even more than you already have.’

‘No! No, you see, now is exactly the time  _ not _ to stop, because I’m not getting any  _ better _ !’ he shouted, his foot connecting with a box and kicking it onto its side.

Christine sighed. ‘Madam Mantis says that you’re still gonna be able to do magic, you can still pass your exams.’

His teeth plunged into his wobbling lip like a meteor crashing through the stars. ‘That’s not the point,’ he snarled, ‘look at me. I’ve been ruined. I had the steadiest hands at Hogwarts, I could shoot a spell straighter than an arrow… now look.’ He raised his wand and pointed it at the pillow. He cast the levitation charm, but the shaking wand sent the spell flying towards the box of tissues on the bedside cabinet instead.

‘There’s more to life than a straight spell,’ she retaliated.

‘Like what? Like you?’ Stephen snapped, the thud of the tissue box against the wood of the cabinet seemed to amplify his harsh tone.

‘This is the part where you apologise.’

‘This is the part where you leave.’

Christine’s face lapsed into a delicate mix of hurt and anger, an expression that had been perfected over the multiple years of having put up with Stephen’s bullshit. ‘Fine,’ she said, ‘I won’t watch you run yourself into the ground.’

‘Oh, what? Is it too difficult for you?’ Stephen mocked.

‘Yes, it is, it breaks my heart to see you like this,’ she said.

‘Don’t you dare pity me!’

‘I’m not pitying you.’

‘Then what are you doing?’

There were three beats of silence, where the tension crawled and constricted like a hungry snake.

‘Leaving,’ Christine said as she stood up.

Stephen watched the first and the last friend that he had ever had walk out on him.

As the doors slammed shut, the tears bubbled from his eyes. He dropped his body back onto the bed and collapsed back onto the pillow and sobbed, harder than he could ever remember doing so.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the wait, I neglected this fic

Whispers often hugged the castle walls, hushed questions about an entity known only as "The Raven". The Raven that would slink through the halls, as dark as the feather, as shaky as a newly born fawn. Only the silver wings atop his nightly black hair and the sky blue of his house were ever spotted. The Raven with his eyes drawn from the beginning of the universe cast down, like he wanted to melt away, seep into the very essence of the grounds. The Raven that was as thin as a rake, who was only forced into the Great Hall when he was teetering on the edge of emaciated.

He perched at the end of the Ravenclaw table, white wings itching to leave, to take flight and flutter away out of the window. To escape this prison, where all he felt was humiliation and the biting mock of pity.

And yet, his wings stayed still. Trembling, but still.

Blinking, he reached past his empty plate for the jug of apple juice. As he tried to lift it, pain coursed up his wrist, and he bit back the gasp, replacing it with his second hand underneath the lip to balance it. Tears sprung to eyes as he brought the jug to hover over his glass. He tipped it forward gently, causing some of the contents to stay glued to the side and trickle over his fingers, cold against his pained skin. As the jug was tipped further forward and the juice unstuck itself from the side and aimed towards his glass, the pain became too much and his hands cramped and his grip slipped.

He stared with an open mouth as the juice erupted from the jug like a cannonball, spreading across the table, splattering the cloth and the plate and the cutlery. A stain was spreading on his robes, but all he could feel was his heart bleeding, his stomach dropping, his cheeks heating, a flush spreading down his cheeks.

His eyes, where a man could drown, looked up.  _ Everyone was staring at him _ . His lip wobbled and a match was raised behind the ocean. They would all laugh. They would all point. They would all mock.

Laughing.

Mocking.

Pointing.

It rang in his ears.

Loud.

Loud.

Louder.

Deafening.

He couldn’t hear.

He could barely see.

He was looking out through an aquarium.

Where the sharks would swim.

Where the eels would electrocute.

Where the seals would gorge on fish.

Where the glass would crack.

And the water would start to leak.

Where it would trickle down pale skin.

Where it would catch on overgrown stubble. Not quite a beard. Not yet.

Not enough time had passed.

There was a clatter as his chair fell back and hit the floor.

There was a panic as his robes got caught under his feet.

There was a yelp as his hands collided with the heavy wooden doors.

There was the continued buzz of conversation as he left, unseen.

No one cared.

* * *

The chill that haunted the dungeons made Stephen’s hands ache more than usual. Professor Banner approached him with his quiet, bumbling, welcoming self. His hands were wringing and Stephen could not help but stare in jealousy - oh, how he wished he could do that again, without the pain, without the cramping, without the rip of fire underneath his skin.

‘Mr Strange, hi,’ he said, ‘uh, I just wanted to let you know that if you needed any help with anything, don’t hesitate to ask.’

The young wizard frowned, the intensity of it marring his face. ‘Thank you, sir, but I will not be needing any assistance,’ he said, voice clipped and strained.

‘Oh, okay.’ Professor Banner retreated back to behind his desk and busied himself with writing ingredients on the blackboard.

_ Bundimun Ooze _ _   
_ _ Streeler shells _ _   
_ _ Dragon liver _ _   
_ _ Hemlock essence _ _   
_ _ Tormentil tincture _ _   
_ __ Cowbane essence

Stephen recognised the ingredients that Banner was writing on the board. Doxycide, used to spray on doxies to paralyse them. It was a simple potion. He should have been able to do it with ease. With his eyes shut. But his damn hands. 

As students started to pile into the classroom, Stephen felt the fingers of anxiety pinch at his arms. A vile pair of hands took his own shaking, pained ones in their grasp and pulled his hands underneath the table, to rest on his knees.  _ No one should have to see those _ , an ugly, venomous voice giggled into his ear. His jaw clenched and he looked down, universal eyes avoiding the other students.

‘Sir, haven’t we done the doxycide potion?’ a Hufflepuff - Karl Mordo - asked.

The Ravenclaw boy flinched as he realised that Mordo was right next to him, could probably see the grotesque scars raised on his hands.

‘Yes, we have, good observation, Mr Mordo,’ Banner replied dryly, ‘we’re doing it again because it is one of the potions that may show up on your exam, so you need to perfect it.’

There was a resounding groan from the students, aside from Stephen, who stayed quiet in his silent panic. His hands. His hands. His hands. They shook. They cramped. He couldn’t do this.

‘You were always good at this potion, Strange,’ Mordo’s honey-sweet voice melted into his ear, ‘I’m sure you’ll get on just fine.’

He breathed out a noiseless sigh, the molecules in the carbon dioxide forced from his lungs  interwoven with stars and asteroids, settling onto the table like a universe all of their own. Oh, he would show Mordo. He would show him that he was still the best student in the castle.

‘I’m sure I will,’ he replied, the old cockiness flooding his voice like a familiar lake.

The Hufflepuff just grinned at him, and got up to collect his ingredients from Banner’s desk. Stephen mirrored his actions.

It hurt to hold the items, and he put all of his concentration into holding them so that they wouldn’t slip from his grasp. Dragon liver was expensive and no one would thank him if it was splattered onto the cobblestones.

He winced as they clattered onto his desk, making too much noise, that echoed off of the walls, the sound leaping back at him as if to taunt him. He set his jaw and got to work.

First he had to juice the Bundium. He could do that. It hurt; the silver dragon was not happy about the excessive use, and she made her opinion clear as she breathed her acidic fire down his bones and tendons. But finally, Stephen was able to add the Bundium acid to the cauldron, stirring the spoon while he did so.

Next, he had to grind the Streeler shells. Into the mortar they went, and Stephen’s hands whimpered as he used the pestle to grind them until they were as fine as dust. With aching fingers, he tipped them into the cauldron. He took his time stirring the potion, willing the dragon to settle down, to lick his wounds instead of cauterising them. He took his wand in hand and lit a weak fire underneath the cauldron’s belly.

While the potion was warming up, Stephen took a knife and started to shakily cut the dragon liver into chunks. He longed for the neat precision that he had once possessed, where the liver would have been cut into the perfect size and thickness for this potion. But alas, he could see that they were too big. He tried to correct them, but for his troubles, the blade of the knife slipped into the ends of his fingertips.

If the dragon had not been gnawing on his hands for the last few months, Stephen would not have fussed over the small injury. But when every touch was fire, when every twitch was acid, when every point of feather-light contact was crushing obsidian, the small cuts felt like his fingers had been hacked off from the knuckle.

He bit back his scream, teeth digging into his lip as though he was an archaeologist hunting for the skeleton buried underneath his skin. He cradled his bleeding hand to his chest, breathing heavily. Through tear-blurred vision, he saw the rose pink potion bubbling over the lip of the cauldron.

And as the liquid dribbled down the side, crystalline tears made their way down the moon-pale cheeks of the Ravenclaw student.

Banner was by his side in an instant. ‘Are you alright, Mr Strange?’ he asked, one hand on the young boy’s shoulder.  _ Everyone was looking _ . With a wave of his wand, the professor cleared up the mess and put out the fire so that the potion had no reason to escape the cauldron. ‘Mr Strange?’

_ They were looking. _

‘Strange?’

_ Mocking. _

_ Cruel remarks left their lips. _

_ Snide laughter crept from their chests. _

‘Stephen?’

The sound of his first name brought the student crashing back to Earth like a meteor. He looked up from the table and turned his gaze on Banner. Scared pools swamped in kelp faced the professor.

‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘knife just slipped. That’s all.’

But that wasn’t all. He didn’t say how foolish he felt. He didn’t say how much pain he was in. He didn’t say that the dragon was lapping up his blood with a tongue lined with chemical stings. And he especially didn’t say that he wish the knife had cut his palms instead of his fingertips. Maybe then, at least, there was a chance that the nesting dragon could be beheaded, and her terrible reign of agony could come to a halt.

**Author's Note:**

> Buy me a coffee: https://ko-fi.com/stephenstrangestan


End file.
